


all things that are left to do

by celestial_hieroglyphs



Category: Not Another D&D Podcast (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, i genuinely dont know how canon compliant this is, i hate galad : ), no its not proofread what do you take me for?, so basically: what if i got sad about the widow for a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_hieroglyphs/pseuds/celestial_hieroglyphs
Summary: All of the Widow's anger and agony had to come from somewhere, and a great deal of it came from the exact battle that brought her down.(Lydia has some time to think on her way to death)
Relationships: Elias Stormborn/Lydia Stormborn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	all things that are left to do

No matter how fast she ran, no matter how hard her feet pounded on the tunnel floor, she couldn't run far enough to miss her- to miss Elias Stormborn Sr.'s final war cry.

"God. dammit." She whispered, through lips bitten half to death and lungs already fighting for breath.

She was so _tired_.

She looked forward, child held tight her chest, as light crept in.

The end of the tunnel, good god, the end of the fucking tunnel. It and the terrible sunlight already creeping in. It and the clear blue sky it had promised earlier that day. It and the beautiful day outside that was in no way fair to the tragedy wrecking the Stormborn home. It and Galad Roselle. 

and Galad Roselle, and his pathetic squad of swordsmen. Red caught up, skidding to a stop and panting as he looked up. 

They were all _so tired_.

Lydia turned to Red and took in a heaving breath. "Take Elias," She whispered.

"What!?" Red hissed, weapon already pointed at Galad. There was a conversation to be had here, but no time.

"Elias, huh... After the charlatan?" Galad said, leaning on the hilt of his too-beloved sword. "Hm. I'm sure with some training and time, it'll make a great soldier for the Light."

Lydia wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to rip his throat out for every word he'd just said. But she didn't. She turned to her friend, and looked at her child quickly as she passed him into Red's hands.

One look. Hazy and an attempt to take everything in, a failed one because of the amount of things running through her mind.

Her chest tight and breathing heavy from something other than running, she whispered something desperate and difficult. 

"Red. Red, run. You know that I can hold them off longer,"

And Red knew. Red knew he wasn't a fighter the same way Gunther or Elias were, knew he certainly wasn't a fighter the same level as Lydia. Red knew.

"I know you can run farther."

And Red knew. Red had been running half his life, what was stopping him now? Besides, of course, his best friend laying down her life, and laying her kid in his arms. 

"Red, you have to run." 

Red didn't quite know. Didn't quite know he had to, didn't quite know he should, didn't quite know when he did. He didn't quite know who pounded his feet against the pavement, sure as hell didn't feel like him, who stole the breath from his lungs, who glanced down at a scared child and looked into a mountain, who would place this child at a hidden orphanage doorstep and pray to every god he knew that he'd turn out as good as the men he knew from it, that he'd live a good life- that he'd survive the night even- in the hours after his friend's slaughter.

Galad waited a second, tempted to chase after the ratfolk, but affixed himself to the person at hand. The conversation had lingered longer than it had actually gone on.

He held a hand up, "Well, we're not savages like you. The Light keeps us. I'll spare the child- besides, that mangy rat is waste of even a singular knight's time."

Lydia grit her teeth, lips curving into a quarter of a smile as she added up the seconds Red had to get further and further. His audacity was insulting, his faith infuriating, but ultimately beneficial. The cocky idiot, it could have been fair fight if he sent three knights for Red to take down- maybe. Galad raised his sword and Lydia raised hers.

* * *

"Why are you fighting so hard? You'll just die later, Lydia!" Galad panted out- or he might've just said it. It was hard to tell with him.

"I'm fighting for the fucking kid you took from me," She spat through grit teeth, unable to meet his eyes as a chosen knight swung at her from behind, "you pathetic tool." She sliced through the weaker knight's armor and flesh quickly, knocking them back.   
  
She was cornered. There was no way out of this and she knew that, ultimately, Galad was right. She was delaying the inevitable. 

She got a stab in on Galad and he cried out in pain

Still, delay was all she needed- all she could want right now. There was a wave of satisfaction as Galad spit blood at her feet, a sting as a cleric moved in to heal him. If he was weakened, if his crew was thinned, if his clerics were culled, then maybe... **maybe**.

The fight went on far longer than it should've; occasionally one of Galad's allies fell and she felt a surge of energy. Maybe, just maybe, she could rendezvous with Red and- well, it wouldn't be a happy ending- but she'd have her son.

She could teach her child how to read, to sail and ride a horse, sword fight- she could pass down her own sword!

The thought renewed her fighting spirit, but it was in vain. A sword, just like the ones she'd grown up using, shaped like youth and death and ruin, pierced her flesh. 

She made no sound.

The moment before it left her skin was a long and quiet eternity.

... If Elias were here, he'd have blocked that hit, or taken it for her if he was busy. Hell, he would've killed the bastard a few seconds ago, these knights were nothing.

But he decided to die purposeless and alone- to fall at the sword of someone they could've beaten together and leave her to the same fate. 

Out with it, and she gasped as blood flowed freely from the wound. She clutched her sword tightly, hacking and shaking as she tried to stay up. The wind stolen from her, the strength sapped, she fell to one knee and her sword clanged to the floor.

No. No, she was still alive, she was still breathing. It was hard, through pained gasps and a snarl rumbling up her throat, but she just needed to get up. Just needed to get off her knees. She was still alive, she just needed to hit them, just kill them, she'd gotten so many of them, just fucking get up just fucking kill just- just survive. It couldn't end like this, she couldn't die here, she couldn't die on her knees, she couldn't end up being killed by Galad _fucking_ Roselle.

She really shouldn't have.

"You should be glad. This is the best way a traitor can serve the light."

There were a thousand things to say as she grabbed him by his regulation-defying long hair and got her sword clean through his thin neck.

A thousand things running through her mind, parallel to the fate of her child, to the death of her husband, to her friends' futures, to her afterlife, to the boiling rage within.

A thousand things to say as she brought up her child, a thousand things to teach.

A thousand loose ends, as she died with a guttural sound drawn from her as Galad slit her throat. They wove themselves together, link by link, into a chain that bound her between worlds, into an anger and agony unknowable.


End file.
